Finding Our Feet
by bauble123
Summary: This is love in the moment, John. This is a love that is the ending of adventures seen together. Your love with Mary is the opposite. It's had its tests, seen its hardships, and now it's ready to begin a new adventure. That love is a love made to last... Sherlock teaches John to dance, and John realises he loves Sherlock. But Sherlock has an answer, and it isn't quite acception.


Finding Our Feet

"I'm sure Sherlock would teach you." Mycroft said, as he made to leave, picking up his umbrella. John turned around, surprised.

"What?"

"Sherlock. He'd teach you dancing if you wanted, I expect." They had been discussing wedding plans a little, and John had lamented his lack of dancing skill, but this was unexpected.

"Sherlock can dance?"

"Oh, yes. My younger brother is exceptionally talented in that department. In fact, it's one of the few things he actually genuinely enjoys doing."

"Seriously?" John queried, though he knew Mycroft could not be lying.

"Perfectly." Mycroft smiled and pulled his coat tighter about him. He was out of the door and into the h allway before John had a chance to investigate further. The front door shut noiselessly and John was forced to content himself with sitting down and opening his book.

It was American pulp fiction. He was engrossed in it. _A girl had entered. _(he read) _I swung myself round to face her. Henderson was right; she was a fine bit. The full go. She had big grey eyes beneath dusky lashes, tawny blonde hair curled neatly up to nestle just on her shoulders, a longish nose that curved up at the end, high cheekbones and full lips coloured a peachy pink. Completing the facial effect, she was wearing just a dab of rouge and a hint of eye shadow. She was dressed in a white blouse with pale pink cherries on it that matched her lips, and a black clingy skirt. The whole outfit showed her shape off perfectly. I tried not to stare at the obvious areas.  
"Whaddaya want, sweetheart?" I said.  
"You Jimmy Carlton?" She was straight to the point, a well-aimed arrow meeting its mark. Henderson had been right. She was sharp as a razor blade, this one._

The door slammed. John was woken from his reverie, and put down the book as Mary came in from the hall. She glanced at him and clapped her hands. "Up you get, Johnny-boy – wedding planning meeting at 221B." John stood up, walked over and gave her a quick kiss. She giggled and pushed him off. "Now is not the time, John Watson." she said, reprovingly.

"Any time is the time when I'm with you."

"Flattery won't get you anywhere." This was a lie. "Let's get going. I'll drive."

John gave her a mock salute. "Captain!" She ignored him and hastened out to the car.

They arrived at the flat, were greeted by an excitable Mrs Hudson, burdened with a promise of tea and then spent an hour with Sherlock, deciding on music and entertainment for the reception. At the end, as Mary stood in the hallway chatting blithely to Mrs Hudson, John turned to Sherlock.

"Mycroft said you can dance," he said.

"Did he now?"

"Yes, he did. Will you teach me? I can't dance a step and Mary and I are expected to waltz at the wedding."

"Of course I'll help you." Sherlock said, smiling wickedly. "Come down this evening at eight and we'll make a start."

"Thanks, Sherlock."

"My pleasure. Now, Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock called. "I need you to show me where your ladle is."

"Yes, Sherlock, just coming." The land lady hugged Mary and hurried after Sherlock, calling, "See you soon!" as she did so.

"Come on, John. We'd best be off." Mary said. And thus they left.

That evening, John made his excuses (he was off to check up on Sherlock) and made his way to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson did not notice as he came in, and he went quietly upstairs and opened to door of the flat. Sherlock looked up as he came in.

"Ah, John," he said. "I have the music downloaded. Let's begin. Now, how much exactly do you know?"

"Literally nothing."

"Good. I like to start with a clean slate." Sherlock pressed a key on his laptop and sweet, lilting music filled the room. John breathed out, feeling all the suspense and tension of his impending matrimony lift from him. Sherlock smiled and took his hand, manoeuvring him into position. "I'll be the woman," he said. "Your substitute Mary."

"Okay."

"Right hand under my left shoulder," Sherlock continued, moving John's hand gently into position. "And left hand together with mine." He held out his hand and John took it. Their hands were melded, squeezed palm to palm, into one. "When you dance with Mary," Sherlock added. "You can grip her around the waist instead of the shoulder, if you want. People like to see that. It…makes the dance more sensual."

"Right." John said, thinking for a mad moment he heard something in Sherlock's tone of voice that implied – he couldn't put his finger on what. _Je ne sais quoi_, he thought, remembering the only bit of French he had ever really learnt.

"And now for the steps," Sherlock said. "Box step first." He moved John round, their feet sliding and coming together, drawing an invisible box on the floor. "And one, two, three," Sherlock murmured under his breath. The music came to a pause, and they stopped. Their eyes met for a moment and they both looked away, embarrassed. "And then, I suppose, it's the underarm turn," Sherlock continued, trying to brush off the moment. "It's like a box step, but as you go into the third side you raise your arm and I – Mary, I mean, spins under it. Then we finish the box step and close in on the last side."

"Okay." They moved the first three steps and then, as John stepped back, Sherlock guided his hand upwards and, bending down to avoid John's arm, which came in at face height, he span under it, twirling a little, his foot coming up in an elegant twist.

He looked up at John apologetically. "I'm sorry, got a little carried away there. And it's a good thing Mary is shorter than I am; she won't have to stoop."

John laughed. "No, it's fine. You really can dance, Sherlock."

"I'm not that good…" Sherlock tried to brush off the comment.

"Yes, you are."

"Perhaps." Sherlock averted his gaze from John's face. "Then a progressive basic, I think. It's the same idea as a box step, only this time you make a sort of S shape."

"I see." They practised the step, Sherlock guiding John through with a skilful hand. "And now?"

"We put it all together." Sherlock stepped over and restarted the music. They got nervously into position, and Sherlock counted out the beats of the introduction. "One, two, three, four…"And then they were dancing, gliding as one being across the floor of the flat. The music took them, and the melody etched itself in swirling lines into John's head. He reached a hand up, trying to maintain his grip beneath Sherlock's shoulder-blade. "I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered. "I'm a lot taller than Mary, I know. You can…" he broke off. Then, in one fluid movement that John barely recognised or noticed, he pulled John's hand down onto his waist. It moulded itself to the position instantaneously, and John found himself intrigued by the hard angular curves of Sherlock's body, in such close proximity to his own.

As they moved, their eyes met, and this time they did not look away. Their gazes locked. A wave of realisation swept over John. He pulled himself in closer to Sherlock. The other man said nothing. He did not seem to mind. John leaned himself against Sherlock's chest, his head pressed gently into the crevice of his neck, listening to his beating heart beneath the thin shirt. Sherlock likewise nestled his head on John's shoulder. "I can't do this," John whispered. "I can't marry Mary."

"Yes you can." Sherlock was firm, but his voice was soft and low. "Of course you can. You must."

"But I love you Sherlock. I just realised that. I love you."

"I know, and I love you too, but you have to see that we couldn't last. And you love Mary just as much as you love me, when you look into it, if not more. It's just a different kind of love."

"But is it? It isn't the same. They can't both be love."

"They can. They are."

"Are they?"

"Yes. I said that. They are. Of course they are."

"Of course they are." John repeated.

"This is love in the moment, John. This is a love that is the ending of adventures seen together. Your love with Mary is the opposite. It's had its tests, seen its hardships, and now it's ready to begin a new adventure. That love is a love made to last, a love that is just starting out. In time you will forget this soft, misty, unreal thing you felt with me. It will fade away, and seem just a worthless, tinny, unworthy thing."

"No, it won't. It can't!"

"It will."

"Will it?"

"It will."

It was at that moment that Mrs Hudson entered. She saw the tears trickling down Sherlock's face, the tears John could not see. In a moment, she realised it all. It was sad, but it was right. Sherlock could not keep John for his own. He had to let him go some day, and now the time was coming. John was a fledgling leaving the nest and finding his own love. This was hard for Sherlock, as it is hard for a mother who must let her son go into the arms of another woman. But he would manage. He would survive. His love would never be lost, it would always be there, just a faded image in the background of it all, a single chord supplementing everything in John's life. The music stopped, and Mrs Hudson melted back into the house, and the love the two felt died, for one, instantly, and for the other was pushed back out of sight. It had had its time, and now it was its time to watch and wait.

_They also serve_, thought Sherlock, as he watched John pick up his coat and leave (and as he watched John take his vows, and discover he was a father, and cry at the grief that comes to us all in the twilight of our lives), _who only stand and wait._


End file.
